Picking Up Where We Left Off
by sams1ra
Summary: Just because the Yellow Eyed Demon is dead, doesn’t mean his plans died with him. Other demons can pick up where it left off, fitting all the pieces together for their master plan.
1. Chapter 1

Picking Up Where We Left Off

Disclaimer: I own nothing supernatural related. Yet…

A/N: Much love to my betas historylover and H.T. Marie. Thank you guys! All remaining mistakes are mine.

This plot bunny was born while I was reading Minkmix's 'Removed'. If you hadn't read that, you have no idea what you're missing. It's awesome.

* * *

Chapter One

Moose and Goose Motel, 2002.

"Nngh." That was all the protest Dean had managed to put into sound. "Umphgh!" he added a moment later, when no better words came to mind. His eyes were heavy, his entire body screamed at him to go back to the dark haven of unconsciousness. Dean would have happily obliged, if not for the incessant ringing. He squinted his eyes, glared at his cell phone, growling deep in his throat. He should totally salt and burn the thing. Totally.

_Stop the damn ringing!_ Was what Dean meant to say. What he actually said was another "Ugh!" Fingers clenching around the offending phone, Dean turned onto his back, flipped the phone open and brought it to his ear, growling again.

The person on the other side of the line didn't seem impressed.

"Dean. You there?" The voice was familiar, and still, just beyond Dean's reach.

"If I said no, would you hang up?" Dean slurred.

"Dean!" The sudden, irritated shout made him flinch. "You better not be shacked up with a girl somewhere! I find out I've been wasting time because you can't keep it in your pants, I'm taking the Impala back!" Dean's eyes flew open. Oh yeah, he so recognized the voice alright, and it was pissed.

"No, sir." He slurred, looking dazedly around the room, just to make sure. He didn't remember a girl, but then again, that didn't always mean there _wasn't_ a girl…

The room was mostly dark. Faint light filtered in through closed curtains. No girls around. Dean wasn't sure if he should be relieved or disappointed.

"Well, where the hell are you? I've been waiting for you for the past six hours! You think I don't have better things to do?" His father demanded. Dean blinked, resting his arm across heavy eyes. He was so tired, his mind working in slow motion, body screaming for the relief of unconsciousness. "Well?" His father demanded after a pregnant pause.

"Weren't we supposed to meet on Friday?" Dean asked. He was pretty sure it was Friday.

"It _is_ Friday. Has been all day long," John snapped. "Where are you anyway?" Dean frowned.

"No, it's Sunday. I still got all week," Dean said slowly, turning onto his side and pushing heavily to his feet. Yeah, bad idea. He lay back down, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, his body too tired to fight gravity just yet. The silence from the other end of the line resonated for a long time before John started talking again.

"You been drinking again?" He asked, a little bit of concern slipping through his snappiness. Dean stared at the water-stained ceiling. Could be, the way he was feeling. But it didn't really feel like a hangover. "Dean…" his father sighed. "It was your idea to meet. You wanna keep playing games, you don't wanna show up, I got another job all ready…"

"No." John was going too fast; Dean was fighting to catch up. "Dad, no." He felt bad, wrong. A quick onceover revealed old traces of blood, but not enough to cause alarm. His right wrist was swollen and hurting, but the injury didn't seem new. Nothing felt broken, but he did have a few painful bruises. He could tell he'd been sleeping in his clothes. His entire body ached, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Cotton made out of lead, that is. He rolled over to his side again, forcing himself up.

"I'll… I'll be there as soon as I can, I promise," he said, swallowing to wet his dry mouth. "Just… You just wait, okay?"

"You alright?" John asked after another long pause. Dean shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, running a hand over his face. "Just tired is all. I'm on my way right now, okay? You just wait."

"Yeah, okay." John conceded, "But you better get here soon. I don't have all week, you know."

Dean hung up, rubbing his eyes with his hand. A headache was beginning to form right behind his eyes. His body felt so heavy, but he had to go, had to meet his father. He forced himself up and off the bed, walking to the bathroom on unsteady feet.

He filled a glass with lukewarm tap water and drank it slowly, forcing it down his dry throat. His hand shook slightly when he put the glass back. Whatever this was, it was no hangover.

Getting out of the bedroom, Dean leaned against the doorframe, looking around at his motel room. A generic motel room, just like any other he'd been in. With a tired sigh, he pushed himself away from the door frame and started looking for his duffle. It wasn't there. In fact, none of his things were in the room. Not even his toothbrush. Nothing. Just him and the clothes he wore.

Dean frowned, but didn't bother thinking about it for too long. Thinking felt like too much of an effort right now. He tucked his cellphone back in his coat pocket and opened the door.

Huh. The key still dangled on the outside. Strange. Not like him to be this reckless. But then again, thinking? So not his thing right now.

Getting out of the room, he pocketed the keys and looked around for the Impala. His heart stuck in his throat for a minute when he couldn't see it. He forced himself to calm down, take a step back.

Dean leaned against a wall, resting his head back. God, he just wanted to close his eyes, go back to sleep. Nothing made sense. Dad had said it was Friday. If there was one person who didn't screw around with timetables, it was his father, and if he'd said it was Friday, then it probably was. Which is a whole lot of weird, because Dean could have sworn Friday was still five days away.

Maybe his father had gotten it wrong.

Trying hard to push the cobwebs out of his mind, Dean scratched his head. A paper. A paper would have the date on it. He didn't have a paper though. Opening his eyes and squinting at the glaring sun, Dean looked around the parking lot.

The main office wasn't far. Maybe they'd have a paper. Worth a shot.

With a soft groan, Dean pushed himself away from the wall, taking a minute for the world to decide which way it was spinning, and what color everything should be. He walked over to the main office in what was so clearly not a straight line even Dean could see it, feeling lightheaded and nauseated, heavy and strangely uncoordinated.

The pimply kid at the desk did have a paper, but he wanted the room key first. It took Dean more than a few seconds to realize what the kid was talking about, and then a few more to fish the keys out of his pocket. He shook his head again to try and clear it. Friday. Damn.

"You okay, mister?" The kid asked. Dean ran a hand through his hair, leaning heavily against the counter. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, his vision swimming a little. "Hey, mister?"

"Huh?" Dean blinked, breathing hard. He was sweating, finding it hard to focus.

"Should I call an ambulance or something?" The kid offered. Dean blinked at him. He could tell something was wrong, could tell his mind was three steps behind, but he couldn't figure out why. He did know an ambulance was probably not the best way of getting to his father anytime soon. He shook his head.

"Nah, just… You have any water around?" He asked hoarsely, suddenly feeling parched. Pimply might have said something, but Dean missed it. He blinked, and by the time he opened his eyes, the kid was back, holding a glass of water and offering him some Tylenol. Huh. Fast kid. He took the water and the pills, thanking him the guy and again refusing the ambulance.

He walked out of the office, falling back against a wall, feeling like there was something he was supposed to do, something he wanted to ask, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was.

He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and just rested for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Shading his eyes from the sun, he spotted his car across the street and frowned. Why the hell had he parked it there?

Taking a deep breath and hoping the pills would kick in soon, Dean started for the car. The keys were still in his pocket, and after struggling to insert them into the keyhole for several seconds, he gratefully collapsed into the driver's seat, feeling too exhausted to stay on his feet a moment longer. He rested his head against the wheel, closing his eyes, and tried to remember why he was out of bed. _Oh, yeah. Dad_.

Reluctantly, he started the car, easing into traffic. His mouth was dry again, his heart pounding, and sweat trailing down his neck and back. His eyes felt heavy, but Dean fought to keep his mind clear.

He managed it for about ten minutes, until he reached a red light and stopped the car. It was then that exhaustion finally won. He couldn't get himself to reach his hands up and grab the wheel, couldn't force them to shift gears. He wished the car had head rests. His head felt so damn heavy; his entire body screamed with bone-deep exhaustion.

The light turned, but Dean couldn't've cared less. Breathing was a priority now, just breathing and staying conscious, and stopping his heart from pounding its way out of his chest.

The drivers behind him leaned hard on their horns, but Dean barely heard them. God, he felt sick. Maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to refuse the ambulance. He wanted to open a window, get some fresh air in the car, but he just didn't have the energy to move anymore. Had he been more alert, he would have noticed the police cruiser three cars behind him, but as it was, his vision was swimming, his mind racing in neutral. He couldn't really wrap his mind around the cop knocking on his window, telling him to get going, pal.

* * *

Carlos knocked on the driver's side window of the black Chevrolet. "Hey, would you get movin' pal?" It was nearly the end of his shift, and being stuck in traffic because some asshole wasn't paying attention wasn't really something he wanted to do. He glanced over at the line of cars behind the black car. Huh. Didn't usually get this busy this time of day. 

Still, he had to use the bathroom, and this idiot was making him wait longer. If the guy was using his cell phone while driving, Carlos was so gonna fine him. Being a cop had its perks sometimes.

The moron in the car kept ignoring him as the light changed back to red, and the restless drivers honking their horns were starting to give Carlos a headache. What were they honking for anyway? Light was red. Rolling his eyes, Carlos knocked on the Chevy window again. It was a short light, it'd change again any moment, and Carlos wanted to make sure this moron wasn't going to give him any trouble. The driver blinked stupidly at him. _Oh, great. Just what he needed_.

He kept his hand hovering over his gun holster, just in case. You never knew these days.

Carlos looked up at the light, then at the line of cars and sighed. He had a feeling in his gut that this was going to be one of _those_ days. The light turned green again, and the driver still didn't move. Carlos didn't blame them for honking this time, even his partner was getting irritated.

"Come on, light's turned green twice now. You gonna move it or not?" Carlos demanded, pounding on the window again, peering inside the car. He frowned. "Hey, mister, you alright in there?" Maybe it was the light, but from where he was looking, the driver looked like shit warmed over.

Bending over slightly so he could take a better look, Carlos cursed. The driver seemed barely conscious. Definitely going to be one of _those_ days. He knocked on the window again, glancing at his partner back in the cruiser, and then back at the driver.

"Listen, sir, I'm gonna get the door open, okay? No funny business, I just want to make sure you're alright, okay?" Carlos asked. Eight year olds drew automatic weapons these days, he sure as hell wasn't going to risk it.

He opened the driver's side door, crouching down to take a better look at the driver.

A young man, early twenties. Pale as a sheet, dark circles around his eyes, more than a few bruises lining his face, a week's growth of scruffy beard. The man was sweating heavily, hands shaking. _Just great._ He had a junkie on his hands. And he really had to use the bathroom.

"Sir, you alright?" Carlos asked again. The green eyes that tried to focus on him were glazed. The man's breath was coming quick, shallow. Damn, he looked bad. Carlos hesitated a moment, and then called it in, calling for EMS and signaling for his partner to direct traffic.

"Sir, you think you can step out of the car?" Carlos asked. The driver closed his eyes, head dropping, chin nearly touching his chest. _Just great_. Carlos cursed under his breath. "Sir, I'm gonna get you out of the car now. No funny business, alright? Just nice and easy," He said, not even sure the driver had heard or understood him. _Damn junkies_. He hated them, especially the ones who got behind the wheel.

Easing the guy out of the car wasn't as simple as it seemed in his head. Carlos set the guy down on the pavement, back resting against the black car. The kid sure looked miserable. Served him right, messing with drugs, Carlos couldn't help think.

"You alright?" he asked again, cursing and grimacing as he got his answer. The guy puked all over his shoes. _Definitely_ one of _those_ days.

* * *

Carlos wiped his brow. The kid sure was heavy, and practically dead weight in his arms as he pulled him up and away from the road, onto the sidewalk. He couldn't help resenting his partner a little as he saw him easing into the classic car, driving it away to clear room for traffic. And here he was, stuck with a stoner until EMS got there. And did anyone care that he really _really_ had to pee? _Damn junkies_. 

The kid was propped up against a building, taking in shaky breaths, barely conscious. EMS sure were taking their sweet time. Guy's gonna keel over any moment. Carlos radioed Central, asking for an ETA on the EMS. Any minute now, the operator promised. _Yeah, yeah_.

Carlos peered down at the driver, wondering what he was on, if the trip was worth it. The guy was shaking now, his whole body trembling, and Carlos was getting nervous. Been a long time since he had practiced first aid, wasn't sure he remembered what to do.

He sent a little prayer to God and the Mother Mary when he heard the sweet wail of sirens nearing. Two paramedics got out of the ambulance, still arguing about something or other as they made their way to him.

"What's wrong with him?" One of them asked, kneeling next to the barely conscious driver. Carlos shrugged.

"Found him like that, in his car. Middle of traffic. Junkie, if you ask me." He answered. "Kid puked all over my shoes when I got him out of the car," he added irritably. The paramedic sent him a sympathetic look before turning to her patient.

"Sir, can you tell me your name?" She asked, taking his hand and checking for a pulse. "Sir?" She asked again when he failed to answer. "Pulse is really fast. He's diaphoretic." she reported to her partner, then turned, pulled out a pen-light, and shone it in Dean's eyes. He shirked away from the light.

Carlos excused himself for a second and rushed into a nearby diner to relieve himself. By the time he was back, the paramedics had already inserted an IV line and were loading the young man onto the ambulance.

"You coming with us?" One of them asked. Carlos sighed. Paperwork. He hated paperwork even more than he hated junkies.

"You guys going to County, right?" He asked, making sure. The paramedic nodded. "I'll meet you guys there." He said. There was no wallet, no driver's license, no ID on the guy. Maybe there was something in the car. He would go over to the hospital after he searched it. Anyway, his cruiser was still here, and his partner still gone, probably testing that old car.

Carlos sighed, reporting everything over the radio as he watched the ambulance take off. Eight years till his pension kicked in. He couldn't wait.

* * *

The call went to voicemail. John gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes. Dean was pushing it. The boy was missing his brother something fierce; John knew that. Hell, a blind man could see it half a country away, but Dean was totally pushing it. 

He didn't disobey orders, didn't fight the way Sam did, but he was drinking too much, letting himself get distracted by pretty girls, talking out of line. And now this.

They parted ways. John wasn't sure whose idea it was, it just… happened. They both needed some time to cool off. It was Dean's idea to get together, though, Dean's idea to hunt together again. So having him ignoring John's phone calls and being over twelve hours late was pissing John off a little. It didn't help that the last time they spoke, Dean sounded off. A worried John was usually a pissed off John.

He ordered another cup of coffee and called his son again, counting the rings. The call was answered after the forth ring.

"Dean?" There was a lot of background noise and it took a moment before someone actually answered him.

"Hello?" Thing was, whoever it was, it definitely wasn't Dean. For starters, it was a woman.

"Who is this?" John demanded.

"My name is Lucy, I'm a nurse here at County. Who am I speaking to?" John could practically feel his heart in his throat. He swallowed.

"County?" He asked when he was able to talk again. He wanted to ask which county, but he needed more information first.

"Yes, sir. The caller ID said 'Dad', so I believe we have your son here in the ER." The nurse continued. John's heart picked up speed.

"What happened?" John did his best to control his voice.

"I really can't answer that, sir. You'll need to speak with his doctor for that, but I don't believe he's in any serious danger." John closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair.

"Was it a car accident?" He asked. _Was Dean drunk?_

"No, sir. You really should get here soon, though. We're going to be admitting him overnight at the very least, and he's not really in any shape to fill out any forms…"

"Where is he?" John asked, realizing he didn't know. He calculated the distance in his head after the nurse answered him. It'll take eighteen hours at best to get there. "I'll be there tomorrow." He said. "He's okay though, right? It's not too serious, right? He's not…"

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give out that information."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Picking Up Where We Left Off

A/N: First, much love to my betas historylover and H.T Marie. Thank you guys, I doubt there would have been a chapter 2 without you!

Second, to all who wondered; yes, Sam will be in this story, angsting and brooding and kicking demonic a$$ - it'll just be a little while to get there.

Chapter Two

(Still 2002)

The world was fading in and out of existence. One moment he was in a motel room, the next in his car, and the next moment he was in a bed, only he wasn't really. He was strapped down, a stranger sitting by his side.

Dean blinked, and when he opened his eyes, flashes of bright light danced before them. Hazy faces peered at him from above, blocking some of the light and talking around him in a language he could not understand.

Words were tossed around in rapid succession. Words like LOC, BP and diaphoretic, and he had no idea what language that was. Maybe he could understand more if everything wasn't going in fast forward.

Dean groaned, feeling hot and cold, sweaty and nauseated. He tried to get out of the bed, tried to explain the movement was making him feel sick, but strong hands held him tight, refused to let him move. He had no energy left to fight.

The movement stopped at last. He was brought into a bright room buzzing with action and sound, but none of it made sense to him. He cried out when someone shot a light so bright into his eyes, it felt as if his corneas were on fire. Dean tried to fight, but his feeble attempts were quickly overcome.

Someone slapped his cheeks gently, and Dean tried to focus on a face, but his vision swam and he shook with involuntary tremors. Breathing was difficult, and his chest hurt from the pounding of his heart against it.

Someone was talking to him. The sound was almost reassuring, but he couldn't put the sounds into legible words.

He felt a cool metallic touch across his chest, and then shivered even harder as cool air met exposed flesh. A needle pricked the inside of his elbow. That's when panic hit. He couldn't explain it, not even to himself. It didn't hurt all that much. He wasn't usually squeamish around needles, but instinct told him to fight, so he did.

Someone held him in place. Dean fought hard as his hands and legs were strapped to the bed. Now his heart was truly pounding, the only sound he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears. His chest burnt with exertion. He cried out at the pain in his wrists and ankles. He wasn't even aware of the agony that was his wrists up until just now.

Pain gained a whole new definition when something was forced into his mouth. A plastic tube, shoved down his throat. Dean gagged on it, suffocating. He couldn't breathe. Something was trying to kill him, and whatever it was, he wasn't going to go without a fight. Strong hands held his head in place, preventing any movement as something was poured down the tube. Dean felt it go down, past his throat, into his stomach. He gagged, trying to bite the tube, and fought for breath, but the strong hands were persistent.

He didn't even feel the second prick in his arm, just the warmth spreading through him, the crushing weight of his chest, and the darkness that greeted him, blanketed him, shielded him and allowed him to rest at last.

* * *

Officer Carlos Martinez walked down the hall, back from the nurse's station, sipping his coffee. He'd learned long ago not to drink the crap the vending machines claimed was coffee, unless he felt like getting himself admitted for a day or two. 

The kid that was brought in was still behind the double doors accessible only to those of the medical profession. Every now and then, a nurse went in and out of the room; ordering tests, bringing back results and medical supplies.

Carlos looked at his watch. His shift would be over in a little under two hours. The paperwork alone would take that long. He sighed, walking up and down the corridor.

Twenty minutes later the double doors opened, the kid wheeled out of the room and into an elevator. The boy looked out for the count, hands and legs restrained to the gurney. Figures. Carlos wondered if they were taking him to rehab. Waste of time, he could tell them that much. Most of the kids that go through rehab ended up using again anyway.

Seeing the doctor getting out of the room, Carlos hurried over to talk to her. The doctor was a petite Asian woman in her early fifties. Carlos had seen her around the ER a couple of times.

"So," Carlos started, falling into step with the doctor, "let me guess, the kid's tox screen came up positive," he said with a confident smirk. The doctor stopped for a moment, looking him up and down.

"Yes," she said, and kept walking.

"I knew it. Can spot a junkie a mile away," Carlos boasted. The doctor didn't seem to be listening. "So, what was he on? LSD? Heroine? Cocaine? It was an overdose, right?"

The doctor stopped short at that, and Carlos had to take a step or two back. The doctor narrowed her eyes.

"I will file a report with the police after the tests are completed. But yes, with the amount of drugs in his system he came very close to an overdose," she said, and Carlos nodded knowingly. The doctor flipped through the file in her hands. "He has enough anti-psychotics in his system to sedate a horse," she added, and Carlos's smirk faded from his lips. He frowned.

"Why would a guy shoot up anti-psychotics?" He asked. The doctor gave him a sharp look, and he suddenly felt hot under her piercing eyes.

"He didn't," she said dryly. "He has rope burns on both wrists. Skin raw and bloody. Kid fought hard against something, that's for sure," she added, leafing through the file again. "Sprained wrist, contusions to his face and lower abdomen, wheezing and a possible arrhythmia – I've sent him up to the cardiac ward for some more tests. Might suffer brain damage. We won't know for sure until all the drugs are out of his system." The doctor finished, closed the file, and looked at officer Martinez in a way that made him feel two inches tall.

"How long…?"

"Could be hours. Could be a couple of days. I can't tell for sure until I know exactly what's in his system."

"This… this was an assault? Someone did this to him?" He asked, making sure.

"Looks like." The doctor said briskly, picking up another file. "Guy's a mess. You should probably find his family, get them out here. He's gonna be here for a while," she added before heading off in another direction.

Carlos stared after her for a moment, before calling it in. Someone forced that kid to take anti-psychotics. The paperwork for that would take so much longer than two hours…

* * *

This was so weird. It was like he was watching life from the sidelines, fast forwarding parts without having any control of how much he skipped. 

Dean's eyes snapped open, the memory of something down his throat making him agitated. But there was nothing in his throat now. His hands were free, no longer restrained. Not completely free, though. There was an IV line in his arm, fat drops dripping slowly down the line.

He could hear something beeping in the background, an unsteady rhythm. Breathing came easier now, but it wasn't until he tried to run a hand over his face that he realized it was because of the oxygen mask.

"Hey, don't take that off," someone said, rearranging the mask back over his mouth and nose. "It's good to see you're awake." The voice was friendly, kind. Dean blinked, trying to bring his surroundings back into focus. A woman in her mid thirties. Brunette. Dressed like… Oh crap. Was he in a hospital? "Can you tell me your name, honey?" She asked.

Dean pushed the mask aside, but his throat was too tight. He couldn't speak. The monitor beeped faster now, still out of synch.

"It's okay, sugar. It's okay," the woman, nurse, Dean realized, said soothingly. A moment later she brought a plastic cup to his mouth, helped him to a few sips of water. It was only after that he felt the terrible taste in his mouth. The nurse smiled sympathetically. "That's charcoal." She answered his unasked question. "They gave you active charcoal back in the ER." She added, and brought the cup back to his lips. Dean drank thirstily. "Better?" She asked. He nodded lightly, eyes too heavy to keep open. "Good. You just rest now, hon."

The next time he opened his eyes, it was dark, he was wearing different clothes and the beeping sounded a little more regular. Both his wrists were bandaged. He wondered a little about that. There was an IV in his arm. He couldn't remember if it had been there before or not, but an IV usually meant a hospital. He would have cursed if he had had the energy. As it was, he simply let his eyes close and succumbed to the darkness once more.

* * *

John Winchester wasn't the kind of man who liked having too much free time on his hands. Especially when he was by himself, and even more so, when there was nothing he could do about it. 

Most of the time, he used his free time to research, but an eighteen hour drive didn't really allow that. Even implementing his 'car brakes are for pussies' and 'speed limit's just a suggestion' rules, there was simply too much time for his mind to go where John did not want it to go.

He should have guessed something was wrong. He should have kept in touch more often, should have kept an eye on the boy, should not have let him off on his own… But mostly and most distressingly, he had no idea what alias Dean had used. Which insurance card. And that posed a really, really big problem.

John still wasn't a hundred percent sure what to do when he got to the hospital, and hurried to the ER. He had spent nearly an hour in the car, trying to remember the nurse's name. He thought it was Lacy or Laney or something like that, but he couldn't be sure. He headed for the nurses' station, deciding there was really only one way to go. Total and complete hysteria. If you acted crazed enough, people tended to want you out of their way. It was worth a shot, anyway.

"I'm here to see my son," he told the nurse talking on the phone in front of him. "I got a call last night that my boy was in the ER. I need to see him." John pressed more urgently. The nurse popped her gum and kept talking on the phone. John ran his fingers through his hair. Worry and helplessness were not all that difficult to fake at the moment.

Turning around, he stopped another nurse walking down the hall. "Please," he said, "I have to see my son! They wouldn't tell me what's wrong with him. I don't even know…" And he choked. Didn't really have to fake that at all. "I have to see my son!" He raised his voice - just enough to show his distress, but not enough to freak anyone out. The nurse seemed to respond to that.

"What's your son's name? When was he brought in?" She asked. John skirted around the first question.

"Last night. I… I talked to him around noon, but then I tried calling again and kept getting voicemail until someone picked up and said she's a nurse here and that her name was Lacey? Lacy?"

"Lucy?" The nurse asked, trying to be helpful. John snapped his fingers, pointing at her.

"That's it! Lucy. She called, saying I had to get here right away. And I tried, I really did, but it took me so long to drive here." John ran his fingers through his messy hair. "I knew I shouldn't have let him go to that… thing," he stumbled, "but you know how kids are…" He was babbling, and he knew it. The more he talked, the more of her time he was taking away, and the more she'd want to get rid of him.

"What's your son's name?" The nurse asked again, walking over to the computer terminal. John cursed under his breath.

"They brought him in yesterday, and I tried to get here. No one would tell me what's wrong with him over the phone. I don't even know if he's… Oh, God… He isn't, is he? Tell me he isn't!" At that, he grabbed her arm, trying to look desperate enough.

"I understand, sir, if you could just tell me his name…"

"They're all I have, my boys," John went on, "Sammy, that's my youngest, he's in college now. Full ride and everything. One of the big ones, too. He's smart, Sammy. Always has been, even as a kid."

"His name is Sammy?" The nurse asked, already clicking away on the computer.

"No," John said quickly, "That's my youngest, he's at school!" He tried for irritated now. "You have my son's things! You have his phone! I tried calling again, I kept trying, but it was turned off! I was miles away, and I was trying to reach my son, and I don't even know if he's… if he's _alive_, and you turned the damn thing off!" He raised his voice, pounded on the admission desk. It was risky, but giving out the wrong name was riskier.

"I'm sorry, sir, but some of our wards have a strict no cell-phone policy." That nurse must have been a saint, the way she didn't even lose her cool.

"People are talking all over the place; you want to tell me there's a no phones policy? That's crap! What about that guy?" John snapped, pointing at a guy sitting in one of the plastic red chairs, talking on the phone.

"Well, sir, this is the ER. If your son had been brought here yesterday, chances are he's not here anymore."

"Not here?" John raised his voice, "What do you mean, he's not here? They told me… Eighteen hours! You have any idea what it is to drive for eighteen hours, not even knowing if your son is okay?" He yelled, "You have any idea what that feels like?" He had to stop for a minute, because his act was getting less and less an act, and he couldn't afford to lose his cool. Taking a deep breath, John ran his hands through his hair.

The nurse was looking things up on the computer, which was good on so many levels, but a security guard had already locked his eyes on him. He would have to be more careful.

"Sir, I understand," she said, a little clippie – he was getting to her, "but I can't help you if you don't tell me…"

"Can't help me! Is this some sort of joke? You people think it's funny?"

"No, sir!" She said quickly. John was getting to her, and he wasn't giving up on that edge.

"Where's my son! You took his things, and you called me, and now you won't even tell me where he is!" John cried. "What am I going to tell Sammy now, huh? 'Sorry, kiddo. I know you wanted to be there, but the damn hospital wouldn't let me see your brother until it was too late?' That what you want me to say? Huh?"

The nurse sighed, the expression on her face barely concealing the fact that she really wanted him to go away and never come back. She turned back to the computer.

"Sir," she sighed again, "We had over a hundred people come through here yesterday. If you could just…"

"He's twenty three, 6'1'', dirty blond hair, he… He likes extreme sports. Must've broken every bone in his body at one time or another. Has a lot of scars. He's proud of 'em, too. Awfully good at what he does." John choked up at that, and it wasn't an act this time. The nurse clicked on the keyboard again, and John's stomach lurched at her expression.

"Donald Nash?" She asked. John nodded, recognizing the name as one of Dean's aliases. The nurse nodded back. "He's up in the cardiac ICU, up in third floor. Just follow the orange line to the elevators," the nurse said. John just blinked, sure he'd misheard her.

"The cardiac ICU?" He asked, making sure.

"Third floor." The nurse nodded, and John swallowed, feeling his knees growing weak.

"Thank you," he said softly, and then grabbed her arm again. "Thank you." He repeated, squeezing her arm lightly. She smiled, nodding at him, and he hurried off towards the elevators.

* * *

It was easier now that he had a name, an alias. He found Dean in the fourth room on the right. There were six beds in the room, all of them occupied, most by older men and women. It made his son stand out like a brightly lit episode in a TV horror show. 

John walked over to him, taking in the sight of his firstborn attached to an IV and some sort of machine that measured his heartbeat. His unsteady heartbeat. Dean had a nice shiner on his left eye, standing in stark contrast to his pale skin. A blanket prevented John from seeing any more injuries.

Dean didn't stir at the sound of his father's footsteps. John leaned against his son's bed, watching, not touching.

"Hey! You're not supposed to be here!" John turned his head quickly at the sharp words and even sharper tone of voice. A nurse stood in the doorway. "I'm calling security," she announced, her hand already on the phone. John got to his feet.

"He's my son," he said simply. The nurse hesitated for a long moment, looking from John to Dean and back, and finally put the phone down.

"You're not supposed to be here," she repeated.

"They called me last night," John said simply. "I would have gotten here sooner, but I was too far away," he explained, looking back at Dean. "How is he?" He asked. The nurse studied him for a long moment before giving a slight nod.

"I'll get his doctor," she said, turning back and leaving the room. She came back a few minutes later, accompanied by a doctor. And a cop. _Damn it_.

"Mister Nash?" The doctor, a balding fat man, asked without even looking at John. John stood up straighter, eyes flicking from the doctor to the cop and back. _What had Dean gotten himself into?_

"I'm doctor Fitzpatrick," the man introduced himself, and John nodded at him. "Your son was brought in last night." The doctor was looking at the chart in his hands again. "He was given the initial treatment in the ER. They pumped his stomach, gave him some active carbon to soak up the drugs…"

"Drugs?" John was sure he'd heard wrong. Not drugs. Not Dean. Not again. Dean had promised he wasn't using that stuff again. The doctor pushed his thick glasses further up his nose, glimpsing at John.

"Unfortunately, it didn't help all that much. You see, there are different ways to deal with different drugs. The anti-psychotics were in his system for a while. It will take time for them to wear off." He went on. John blinked, now sure he'd heard wrong.

"Excuse me?"

"The doctors down in the ER thought Donald might suffer from arrhythmia due to the drugs. That means his heart was beating irregularly. He was given an ECG test, which confirmed the arrhythmia. He was given fluids and oxygen for a while. I'm happy to say he regained consciousness on his own." The doctor droned on, his eyes never leaving his notes. "It will be a while before the drugs leave his system. We won't be able to ascertain any brain damage until then…"

"Whoa, wait, wait, wait, hang on a second!" John said, overwhelmed by the news. "My son doesn't do drugs!" He said, his voice not as steady as he'd hoped it to be. "And what are you talking about, brain damage?"

The doctor peered at him from behind his thick glasses, scratching his thinning hair. "Well, he hasn't been conscious long enough for us to make certain… With the amount of drugs in his system, it is likely…"

"My son doesn't do drugs!" John insisted.

"Mister Nash, it appears Donald had been a victim of an assault. We found him in his car, barely conscious," the cop interrupted. John opened his mouth, but no words came. He closed it.

"What do you mean?" He asked at last. Never had he heard of a ghost or a poltergeist or any other supernatural being forcing drugs on someone. Not unless they were already using, or thinking of using.

"There is evidence…" the cop started, but the doctor interrupted him.

"We're monitoring your son with a Holter cuff, for the arrhythmia," he said, making sure John knew who was in charge of the conversation. "It has to stay on for twenty-four hours. He's on a nitroglycerin drip to help get his heart beating normally again. As for his other injuries, other then the possibility of brain damage, nothing is life threatening. He suffered a few cuts and bruises, a sprained wrist…"

"When…" John swallowed, started again. "When will we know? About the brain damage?" He asked.

"Well, scans came out clean, which is encouraging, but nothing is certain. As I said, he hasn't been conscious long enough for us to be sure. Couldn't even tell us his own name," the doctor answered. John narrowed his eyes.

"He had his wallet in the car," the cop answered before John had had time to ask.

"I will be back for rounds at ten. The nurses can answer your questions until then." The doctor finished, handing the notes over to the nurse and leaving. The nurse offered John a smile.

"I know," she said, "but he really is a very good doctor. He runs the ward. You really are lucky he's your son's doctor." John looked back at this pale son, at the bruises on his face, at the IV in his arm, the Holter cuff monitoring his heart.

"My son…"

"Is going to be just fine," the nurse said quickly "These were some very powerful drugs, and his system was full of them. Brain damage is a possibility, but we have to stay positive and pray for the best." She finished. "I'll get you a chair," she offered a moment later. "Dr. Fitzpatrick is usually very strict about visiting hours, but I suppose we can make an exception." She smiled at him. "Please make sure your cell phone is turned off," she added as she brought his chair over. John thanked her, and she smiled at him before leaving to her duties.

John walked over behind the chair, leaned against the back with both arms stretched before him, and watched Dean sleep.

The cop cleared his throat, reminding John he was still in the room. John turned his head to him.

"I know it can't be easy…" he started, and John looked back at Dean, already running through his list of options; what Dean might have been hunting, what could have happened. "We're keeping an eye on him," the cop went on. John said nothing, clenching his jaw. He didn't know if it was supposed to be good news or not. Didn't feel like it, anyway. Especially with a fake name and fake insurance.

"Anyway, uh…" The cop scratched his head. "I'm gonna need a statement from him when he wakes up," he went on. "You know, if he's…" He gestured. John gave him another look, finally taking a seat. "We'll catch 'em, sir. Wherever they are, whoever they are, we'll catch 'em," the cop added a moment later. John frowned.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. The cop jutted his chin in Dean's direction.

"The people who did this to them. They won't get away with it." The cop said, and John did his best not to roll his eyes. "My name's Carlos Martinez, Mr. Nash. I was the one to find your son," Carlos introduced himself. John gave him a non-committed nod. "Well, uh," Carlos sighed, nearing John and taking something out of his pocket. "This here's my card, if you need anything…" he offered. John took the card, his attention still on his son and all the machines he was attached to. A moment later he straightened up in his chair, stopping Carlos just as he was about to leave.

"What do you mean 'did this to _them_'?"

TBC

Another note: I am having a lot of doubts about this story. The continuance of the story is up to you guys. Should I continue, or cut my losses?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Cookies and love to my betas, historylover and H.T. Marie, who helped make this a better chapter.

Thanks to all those who read and reviewed. You're the reason I decided to keep the story going.

Chapter Three 

(Still 2002)

Dean woke up again late in the afternoon. He still seemed a little disoriented, his words a little slurred. He relaxed in the presence of his father, but tried to hide his chest pains. The monitors he was hooked up on called his bluff.

Dr. Fitzpatrick pulled John aside. "We found three types of anti-depressants in his system," he told John. John frowned. "There were also sedatives and stimulants. Definitely not something one would mix for the purpose of getting high," the doctor went on. "Well, not unless they were stupid," the doctor shrugged and signed something a nurse shoved into his hands, barely looking at it.

"Can you tell if there's gonna be any lasting damage yet?" John asked.

"Well, it's a little early to be a hundred percent sure about the lasting effects of taking contradicting drugs." The doctor pushed his glasses higher up his nose. "There will probably be some side effects; you should expect him to feel nauseated, jumpy, and confused," the doctor said, "But what you should be most concerned about at this time is his heart."

John's frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it seems the nitroglycerin we've been administrating him with isn't doing its job," Fitzpatrick explained. "We are going to try switching him to some other medications, give him some more tests, but frankly, Mr. Nash, you should prepare yourself for the option that medications would simply not suffice."

"What does that supposed to mean?" John demanded gruffly.

"Well, should your son's arrhythmia not be resolved by the new medications, we would have to consider a more permanent solution," the doctor explained.

"Meaning?"

"We would have to implant him with a heart pacer," the doctor said bluntly. John stared at him, waiting for a smile, a wink, anything that might indicate that the doctor was joking. Fitzpatrick stared back. John fumbled for a seat as his heart dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles.

"I understand how this sounds, Mr. Nash, but let's worry about it if and when the time comes," the doctor said, checking his watch. "Let's see how Donald does with his new medication first. Your son is young, and otherwise quite healthy. At the moment, a pacer is a distant possibility, but it is still a possibility. We'll just have to wait and see," the doctor finished. "Now if you'd excuse me, I have other patients to see," Fitzpatrick said quickly and left the room, leaving a dazed John behind. John ran a hand over his face and wondered where the good doctor had learned his bedside manners.

Dean had dozed off again by the time Dr. Fitzpatrick left, and John spent the next hour sitting next to his firstborn, thoughts and worst-case scenarios playing in his mind.

"Mr. Nash."

John was startled out of his reverie by the familiar voice. He turned and nodded at the cop who entered the room. Carlos tucked his cap under his arm and neared Dean's bed.

"Officer Martinez. To what do we owe the honor?" John asked and got up from his seat.

"No, no, please, sit down," the cop waved at him to sit. "I was just making my rounds," he explained, "It's our policy to secure victims of an unsolved crime."

"I appreciate that," John lied and smiled at Carlos. Having the police breathing down their necks, even if it was done with the best intentions, was going to be a problem. Especially when the Billing department found out the insurance was fake.

"Oh, I… have something for you," Martinez said and handed John a plastic bag. John looked quizzically at the officer. "These are the things that were on your son when we found him," Carlos explained, "My partner asked me to tell him he had a sweet ride."

John smiled at that, and looked at his son, half expecting him to smirk and make some smart-mouthed remark, but Dean was still asleep.

"He does love that car," John noted and looked inside the bag. It contained Dean's leather jacket, his phone, car keys, necklace, wallet, ring, and bracelets. "Thank you for these," John added.

"Don't mention it," Martinez said dismissingly. "Any news about his condition?"

"Doc said to wait and see," John answered. Carlos gave a knowing nod.

"The best way of saying shut up and keep out of their way," he said with a slight smile. John couldn't help the smile that ghosted his lips.

"How are the others doing?" John figured it sounded nonchalant enough. "The other victims, that is," he clarified. Martinez glanced at him.

"Far as I know, Donald is one of the lucky ones," he answered.

"How many others are we talking about?"

The cop studied John before answering. "A few," he said, "I don't think they all ended up here, though."

"No one died, I hope," John said, gouging the cop's reaction.

"Not that I know of."

"Why were they brought into different hospitals? Weren't they all found together?" John asked.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Nash, I can't comment on an ongoing investigation," Martinez answered.

"Of course," John said coolly, "But surely, you have leads," he tried.

"I really can't comment on that," the cop repeated, and John knew cop-talk enough to know that meant they didn't have any leads. Martinez seemed to be getting restless, defensive. John could tell that pushing more buttons would probably do more harm than good, so he changed his direction.

"About my son's car…"

"Oh, I'm afraid it's been impounded. It's protocol," Carlos said apologetically, and John cursed under his breath. There were only so many times the Impala could be impounded and have no one check the trunk. Good luck and Winchesters didn't really meet that often.

"Where can I…?"

"Down on Stevenson. About six blocks from here. Not sure about their hours, though. They like to close early," Carlos said, trying to be helpful. John nodded his thanks.

"I'm gonna need to find a motel," John noted, mostly to himself, but the cop heard him anyway.

"There's one not too far from here. It's not fancy, but it's cheap," Martinez offered, and John thanked him.

"Dad?"

"Right here, kiddo," John said quickly, his attention back on his son.

"Why don't I leave you two alone," Martinez said, "If you need anything…" John thanked the cop again as Carlos excused himself.

"How are you doing, tiger?" John asked.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked instead. John blinked.

"I've been here for a couple of hours, remember?"

Dean frowned, thinking. He was still sluggish, in no condition to answer any of John's questions, so John just sat beside him and kept him company until a nurse came by to tell him visiting hours were over.

John was more than a little surprised when Dean grabbed his hand. Dean's green eyes locked on his, and for a moment, John was sure Dean was going to ask him to stay. Dean hadn't asked him to stay since he was eighteen. He didn't this time, either, just let go of John's hand, and closed his eyes again. John squeezed his shoulder once, before he left the hospital for the night.

* * *

It was too late to pick up the car, but John at least made sure the trunk hadn't been tampered with. He got himself a room in a nearby motel and took a long shower, losing himself in thought and steam. 

He had meant to go out, get some dinner, try to get his hands on as many newspapers as he could from the last week or so, but as soon as his tired body slumped on the bed, he was gone.

John woke up just before dawn, his stomach rumbling. He drove to the nearest Seven-Eleven, getting two large cups of coffee, a box of doughnuts and a paper. He finished the first cup of coffee before getting to his truck. He started on the second cup back in the motel room, when he spread the paper on the bed and started reading.

The story was already in the paper; four people ended up at County hospital because of an overdose, three more ended up in another hospital. Police suspected foul play. No further details. Well, none that mattered. Apparently, one of the victims was the son of some smalltime politician and had been reported missing over a week ago.

John finished the last of the doughnuts, crumpled a dirty napkin and tossed it to the floor. He took another sip of the coffee only to realize there was none left. He looked at the time; still too early to go to the impound lot, far too early for visiting hours. Might as well start with research. Not for the first time, he wished his son had kept a journal like his old man. John had no idea what Dean might have gone after, what he was hunting. And he had no idea if the job was finished.

John had found a stack of old newspapers at the front desk and started going through them, looking for anything that looked like his kind of interesting.

* * *

John got to the impound lot just as they opened it, retrieving Dean's car. He waited until he was parked behind the motel before he started looking inside the Impala for clues. The only thing John was able to come up with was that his son was a pig. He took out all the food wrappers and empty snacks packages. A car like that deserved better. He'd have a talk with his son when Dean was up to it. 

He drove back to the hospital, getting there just as they rolled Dean back to his room, no longer in the ICU, but still on the cardiac floor. A nurse smiled at him and told him Dean had had a good night, and that the tests showed improvement in his condition. Any doubt John might have had went out the window when Dean had asked him if he'd brought something edible for breakfast instead of whatever slop the hospital decided to call food.

"So, how'd you know?" Dean asked around his cold scrambled eggs.

"Know what?" John asked, pulling a chair closer to Dean's bed.

"About the hospital, about where I was. I mean, we were supposed to meet on Friday, right? I still have a couple of days," Dean said nonchalantly. John stared at him for a long moment, until Dean pushed his tray aside. "What?" he asked.

"It's Sunday, kiddo," John said somberly. Dean frowned and blinked uncertainly at him.

"Oh," he drawled, "so… did we meet on Friday?" He asked, scratching his brow. John clenched his jaw, and offered his son a glass of water. Dean accepted the glass, but didn't drink it.

"How are you feeling?" John asked.

"Slow," Dean answered after a short pause. "Like… I can think stuff, but it takes forever to say it, and it doesn't come out right anyway."

"Dean, what were you hunting?" John asked at last. Dean frowned. "What did this? What were you after?" John clarified. Dean shrugged. "Well, did you get it? Do you remember? Did you finish the job?" John pressed on. Dean shook his head helplessly.

"I don't remember a job. I don't remember… I… I was looking for something to do, I don't remember a job…" Dean closed his eyes, and for a moment he looked so much like a little boy, it was almost overwhelming for his father.

"Try, Dean. I need to know. I need to know what you were after. I need to know if you finished the job," John said. Something hurt at least seven people. Something hurt _his son_. John had to make sure that something wasn't going to hurt anyone else. That it was dead.

Green eyes stared helplessly at him and John sighed. Dean was still hazy about what day of the week it was, John reminded himself. He pushed himself to his feet, patting Dean's leg.

"Get some rest," he said.

"Are you going?" Dean asked in his lost little boy voice. John hated that voice.

"I have to," he said, "I need to make sure the job's done." _I need to make sure you're safe_. He didn't say that out loud, though. Dean nodded, not looking at his father. "I'll be back later," John added, and Dean nodded again.

"I'm sorry," Dean said so quietly John had nearly missed it. Dean hoped it was enough, that his father wouldn't actually make him say what he meant by it; _I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I didn't get the job done. I'm sorry I failed you._

John looked back at his son. "I'll take care of it," he said. _I'll make sure whatever did this to you is dead. Whatever you were hunting, I'll make sure you're safe._ It was a promise, to his son as well as to himself. Nothing hurts his babies and gets away with it. It was so obvious John didn't bother actually saying it.

* * *

There was a fire. That much didn't take John long to find out. An old apartment building downtown. It didn't burn to the ground, but not much was left of it. It felt like the best place to start. 

The place was closed off, but that had never bothered a Winchester before. John treaded lightly among what was left of the house. He couldn't find any traces of ozone or sulfur, but it didn't mean much. After all, the fire could have burnt the evidence. That left him with no clues. He had a gut feeling the fire had something to do with everything, but with nothing else go to on, John had to write the fire off as a coincidence. At least until he managed to get his hands on some more information.

John made it back to the hospital just in time for the afternoon's visiting hours. He wasn't the only one waiting to see his son, though.

"Mr. Nash," Carlos nodded at him. John nodded back. "Nurses say it's alright for me to take a statement," the cop clarified. John said nothing. "Uh, actually, Mr. Nash, if you wouldn't mind, I would like to talk to Donald alone for a few minutes."

John stared at the cop for a moment, before giving another nod. He went to the gift shop and picked out a couple of car magazines for Dean. John was already at the register when he went back and got a couple of peanut M&M packs.

The cop was still there when John made it back to Dean's room. John leaned against the wall, keeping out of sight behind the curtain dividing the room, and listened.

"…Remember me getting you out of your car?" Carlos asked.

"I already told you, no," Dean said, sounding tired and heavy. "I… remember some stuff, but… I don't know, it's all… blurry. I don't really know what's real and what's not."

John wondered how much of that was true.

"The doctor says you're missing days," Carlos noted, "What's the last thing...?"

Dean licked his dry lips, scratching his arm. "Sunday. I… I finished a job, and I had some time to kill. I was supposed to meet my Dad," Dean shrugged, blinking heavily at the cop. "It gets blurry after that."

"Other people have turned up with overdoses from anti-psychotics. Some are in real serious condition. You wanna tell me you know nothing about that?" The cop pushed.

"Dude, missing time, remember?" Dean snapped. He was getting tired of this.

"Anything you can give us. How many were there? Black, white, Latino? Any names you might have picked up, aliases? Do you remember any of the other victims, anything?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry, I really don't remember," he said tiredly. The cop stared at him for a long minute before replacing his pen back in his pocket.

"Alright then," he said, "if you remember anything…" Dean gave a slight nod and the cop was gone.

"Do you really remember nothing at all?" John asked, and Dean jumped, startled.

"Jesus, Dad! Are you trying to kill me?" Dean breathed, "Just because I'm in the cardiac ward doesn't mean you're allowed to give me a heart attack, you know."

John pulled the curtain aside and leaned against Dean's bed. "That whole Swiss cheese for brains thing, is it real?" He pushed. Dean sighed.

"You're gonna give me the third degree now?" He asked tiredly. John shrugged.

"I'm gonna give you these," he said, dropping the magazines and the candy in his son's lap. A slow smile spread across Dean's lips.

"See, I knew they forgot some basic first aid," he said, reaching for the M&Ms.

"You need anything?"

"Water," Dean asked, and John refilled his glass with the cool liquid.

"Anything else?" He asked. Dean finished his drink and lay back, closing his eyes. "Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Now I'm gonna give you the third degree," John said and Dean groaned. "What do you remember?"

"Not much. I already told you." _Red hair. Soft lips. Pain. Loud noises_.

Sighing, John ran his fingers through his hair, scratching his beard. "Try," he said, "What's the last thing you remember? Before I called you?"

Dean paused for a moment before he answered. "A diner." _Scared eyes. Phone call. Red light. A tube down his throat. A needle_. "I… I was hungry. Ordered a cheese steak sandwich and some fries. Don't remember getting 'em, though." Dean turned his head away from his father, letting his eyes close. "Waitress was off limits," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Too young. Looked twelve, but she was pro'lly older. Too young. Off limits," he repeated tiredly.

"Did you talk to someone in the diner? Were you in the middle of a job?" John prodded.

_Hunger. Thirst. Feeling like he was flying, but underwater. Soft lips. A cop. Bright light. Nausea. Thirst._

"Don't remember," Dean said, licking his chapped lips. John refilled his glass again, Dean accepted it gratefully. "I remember… things. Fragments," Dean said once John had taken the glass away. "I don't know what they mean. Can't even tell if they're relevant, if they happened before, or after I got here." Dean closed his eyes again, already drifting. "I remember drugs, I think. Remember feeling…" he trailed off. "But that must have been here, right?" He opened his eyes half-mast. John watched him for a long moment before asking;

"You're not using again, are you?" Because he had to know. He had to be sure.

"No, sir," Dean slurred. _Darkness. Cries. Someone pressing into him. Pain. Light so bright it hurt. And then darkness_.

"Would you tell me if you were using again?"

"I'm not using, Dad," Dean protested irritably. John sighed.

"Alright. Get some rest. And try to remember the name of that diner."

* * *

Dean was out like a light, which gave John nothing to work with. A diner wasn't really something he could use, unless he knew which diner it was. The only lead he hadn't checked so far was the other victims. Maybe one of them would remember, give him the information he needed. 

With some sweet-talking and some snooping around, John was able to find out the names of the other three people who were brought in about the same time as Dean. John noted all were about Dean's age. One of them was actually staying in the cardiac ward's ICU, a couple of rooms over from where Dean had stayed.

John bought himself a cup of coffee from the machine as he made his way to the cardiac ICU. He grimaced at the taste, and tossed the cup in the nearest trash bin. It wasn't like he couldn't handle a cup of bad coffee, but even John Winchester had his standards.

He had to make sure no one saw him sneaking into the room. He couldn't work a cover here, people have already seen him, knew his son is a patient. He couldn't exactly invent a cover now, not with these people. It took patience, but so did most of his hunts, and eventually he'd found his window, sneaked in unnoticed.

The young woman was easy to spot amongst the elderly occupying the room. She was asleep, though, and John didn't want to wake her up just yet. The woman, a petite redhead, was hooked up to the same machines that monitored his son's health. John recognized the Holter cuff on her arm.

He checked her chart. It seemed the woman had yet to wake up since arriving at the hospital. The chart noted an allergic reaction to one of the drugs she was given. John quickly put the chart away when her family came in the room. He pretended to be a reporter, knowing it would either get him some answers, or get him kicked out.

The mother was a wreck, but the woman's brother told John she had been missing for about a week. She had gone out for groceries and just disappeared. Three states over. The brother went on to supply what little information he could; what the police and doctors had shared with him. He told John his sister was lucky, that the allergic reaction probably saved her life; making her vomit and purging her system from some of the drugs.

The mother started sobbing when the brother spoke of possible brain damage. John offered his sympathy and asked about where and who found the girl. The answers to that weren't all too helpful. The girl was found wandering the streets, walking into traffic, disoriented, dehydrated and incoherent. Witnesses had said she was trying to leave town, trying to go back home, but she passed out in the middle of the road, nearly run over by a car.

John thanked the brother and the mother, offering his sympathy again and wishing the girl a quick recovery. There was no point hanging around any longer, not until the girl woke up.

The second victim was down in the regular ICU. She was hooked up to a ventilator and countless other machines. A simple check of her pupils showed them to be blown and unequal. John pretended to be a reporter again, and found out the woman was found hours before Dean had been, laying next to a dumpster in a back alley. He couldn't get any more information, though, because the head nurse came by and kicked him out of there.

The third victim was a man. He was a couple of years older than Dean, but looked much older. He was admitted to medicine for observation. John flirted with a passing nurse and found out the guy was brought in for severe dehydration, disorientation, and exhaustion, like the others, but the amount of drugs in his system was far lower than in the others.

The guy had been found passed out next to a bookstore in the center of town, miles from where Dean had been found, miles away from where the women had been found. There was no pattern there.

John was glad to find out the guy was not only conscious, but completely aware of his surroundings. John was just about to go in and see him when a cop came by. He tried to wait the cop out, but a nosy nurse found him and told him visiting hours were over. She kept giving him the evil eye until he left. John made a mental note to avoid her on his next visit.

* * *

"Dean? You okay?" John frowned. "Are you supposed to be out of bed?" He quickened his pace, worry flaring in him when Dean failed to answer yet again. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, but Dean didn't even seem to realize his father was there. He was standing at the entry to the cardiac ICU, staring at the door. 

"Dean?" John tried again, squeezing his son's shoulder. Dean turned, blinking at him in confusion. "You supposed to be out of bed?" But Dean simply looked back at the door, swaying a little on his feet. "Alright, come on," John said, pulling his son away from the door, back to his room. Dean seemed relieved to be back in bed.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was?" John asked.

"Hmm?"

"Why were you out of bed?" Dean blinked at his father, scratching his head.

"I had to go to the bathroom."

"There's one right outside your room, why were you all the way down the hall?" John demanded. "What were you doing there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you kidding me?"

Dean fought to keep his eyes open. He yawned. "'M tired," he mumbled.

"Dean, what were you doing out in front of the ICU? Did you remember anything?" John pushed, but Dean was already too far gone.

Frustrated, John went to find a doctor to tell him about his son's progress. The doctor told him they were only going to keep Dean another night, for observation, and as long as he made sure to take it easy, there was no reason to keep him at the hospital after that. John figured it was about damn time he heard some good news.

* * *

"Dean? What the hell?" 

Dean looked sheepishly at his father. "Help me to the bathroom?" He asked.

"Didn't you just go?" John crossed his arms across his chest. Dean stared at him for a moment, before he got out of bed and headed for the door. John stopped him. "You really need to use the bathroom, or are you gonna stare at doors some more?" He demanded. Dean made a face.

"What are you talking about?"

John stared at him for a long moment. "What do you remember?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I remember we already did that part. I remember _telling_ you I don't remember," he snapped. John narrowed his eyes.

"Come on, I'll walk you to the bathroom," the older hunter said. Dean frowned.

"Why? I don't need to go."

John ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his face. "Get in bed," he ordered. Dean shrugged, climbing back to bed. John sat by his side. "What's out there, Dean?" The older man asked.

Dean looked at him quizzically. "A hall?"

John sighed. "Listen, there's someone I gotta talk to. They think this guy is a part of this, whatever this is. Only, he isn't high as a kite."

"What do you mean?"

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. "You stay in bed. You need to go to the bathroom, you get someone to take you, understand?"

"Dude, I'm not four years old," Dean protested.

"That's an order," John said, "And you'd better remember the name of that diner by the time I get back. I want to smell the smoke coming out of your ears by the time I get back, you get me?" Dean frowned.

"What diner?"

"Oh, for the love of…" John muttered, looking heavenward. "Stay," he ordered again, "I'll be back soon." And he left.

* * *

No cops around, Evil-Eye Nurse gone. John snuck another peek down the hall to make sure no one noticed him and made his way toward the second door on the right, quickly closing the door behind him. Turning around, John cursed at finding an empty bed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at his luck. He jumped, startled, when he heard the water flush in the adjoined toilet. The door was pushed open, and out came the guy, pushing himself along in a wheelchair. 

"Can I help you with that?" John offered. The young man stopped, studied him for a moment, a haunted look in his eyes.

"You don't look like a doctor."

John gave his most calming smile. "That's because I'm not," he said. The young man narrowed his eyes.

"I said no reporters!" He snapped, "What am I supposed to do, get a restraining order or something? You want me to sue your ass?"

"Oh, hey, wait a minute," John said quickly, raising his hands in a non-threatening way. "Look, I'm no reporter, I just need to talk to you."

"Well, I don't need to talk to you," the man said, pushing the chair over to the bed.

"You sure I can't help you with that?" John offered again. The young man gave him an irritated look as he got out of the chair and walked the rest of the way to his bed. "My name's Tyler. Tyler Nash," John lied, using the alias he gave the doctors. "My son's up on three, he… They say whoever hurt you…" John stuttered. The guy studied him for a long time.

"Why should I believe you?" He asked, hand hovering over the nurse call button, "You know, there's supposed to be a cop in shouting distance from here." He added coolly.

"I don't want to hurt you," John said quickly. "I just want to know what happened to my boy. He's in no condition to tell me anything. Please, I need to know."

The guy hesitated. "What's your name again?"

"Tyler Nash," John repeated.

"Bull. What's your real name?" John hesitated for a moment. He sighed.

"My name's John. John Winchester." The young man studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing, before some of the tension finally left his shoulders.

"Dean's dad, right? He doesn't really look like you."

John did his best to hide his surprise. "He takes after his mother," John admitted. "Care to share your name with the class?" John prodded. He already knew, of course, but there was a basic level of trust that needed to be established here before this went any further. The guy studied him again before answering.

"My name's Ben Brammel," he finally introduced himself. "Your son's one hell of a guy," he added. John's lip twitched, a sliver of a smile crossing his lips and disappearing a second later. "Badass attitude," Ben went on. He sighed. "Didn't really help us in the end, but he tried. He fought." Ben pushed himself higher in bed. "It meant something, you know? That at least someone still had the strength and the guts to fight."

"Fight what?" John asked. Ben let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Hell if I know, dude. I was stoned out of my mind half the time." The answer did little to reassure John. "He okay?" Ben asked all of a sudden, catching John off guard. "Dean, he okay?" Ben repeated. John took a deep breath.

"I'm not sure yet." He said honestly. Ben nodded lightly, looking away from John.

"I was too out of it," Ben said in a small voice, almost to himself. "Scared shitless, you know? I just wanted out. I… I just wanted out." He looked at John then, guilt and shame and something else in his eyes. John neared him, making sure not to intimidate the young man.

"That's understandable," John said, "Listen, I might be able to help. If you could just tell me what did this…"

"They told me about the others," Ben interrupted. "About them OD-ing." He didn't look at John. "I think it might've been the water. Or the food. Or both." Ben shrugged.

"What do you mean?" Finally, Ben caught his eye.

"They… didn't really give us that much food and water, ya know? I mean, the stuff they gave us made most of us sick anyway, so food wasn't that big an issue, but we were thirsty as hell." Ben licked his lips, looking away again. "When… I don't know exactly what happened, but when we realized we were free, I just ran. Well, tried to, anyway." He smiled bitterly. "I think the others went for the water first. We were just so thirsty, you know?" He looked up at John, quickly lowering his eyes again. "I just wanted out. I didn't give a damn about anything, I just ran for my life."

"What did this to you, Ben?" John asked, "How did you get out? Where were you being held?"

Ben shook his head. "No idea. I don't remember much. It's all… I dunno. Hazy. The whole week, it's… I don't know, bits and pieces." Ben closed his eyes for a moment, before looking up at John. "They'll find us again," he said, "especially if we stay together."

"Ben, I need to know who you're talking about." John said coolly.

"Can't help you there." Ben smiled helplessly. "I got no idea. My brain's all short-circuited or something. I remember some things, don't remember most. I remember her. Shila. But I don't think she's here. Which, you know, probably a good thing. Because then I'd have to go to her, and they'd get us again, and there's just no way, man. No way. I'd die before I'd let them…" He shook his head. "No way."

John soaked up the information, thinking.

"You should be proud of him." Ben said after a long pause. "He fought. I couldn't… I couldn't, but he fought. I remember that much. He's my hero, man. He fought."

"Fought what, Ben? I need to know. Fought what?" John pushed. Ben laughed, a bitter, almost hysterical laugh.

"It's like an acid trip, man. One minute there's a guy in front of me, the next there's just darkness." He shook his head, "There's nowhere to run, that's what they said. Said we all belonged in Hell." He gave another short laugh. "Hell's everywhere, man. You can't run away from it. It'll find you no matter what. Especially after it's marked you."

John frowned. "Ben, please, think. What were they? How did they mark you?"

"Hey, you're not supposed to be here!" John grunted in frustration at the sound of the nurse's voice. "I'm calling the cops!"

* * *

_A week later_

"Again, we appreciate you not going to reporters with this. I cannot stress how important this is if we're gonna catch the guys who did this to you," the cop said. Dean said nothing, jaw clenched, muscles tight. "Look, what I…" the cop removed his cap, rubbing his brow, "We found evidence of sexual activity in the other victims. With your permission, we'd like to bring you back to the hospital for some more tests…"

"No," Dean said coolly. John looked from the cop to his son. It wasn't easy to stay out of it, to just sit and watch.

"Sir, I know this must be difficult…"

"It's been over a week," John interrupted, "Even if there was something to find, there'd be nothing left anymore." He got up from his sit on one of the beds in the motel room. "If my son doesn't want to go back to the hospital, he's not going."

The cop looked from father to son. "You sure you don't remember anything else? Anything that might help us?" Dean shook his head. The cop nodded. "Okay. Just make sure to stay in town, in case we have some other questions," he finished. John escorted the cop to the door, blocking his view of Dean, closing the door behind the cop.

"You okay?"

Dean shrugged. "As okay as I can be with a week long hole in my memory," he said.

"You wanna go back to that burnt building? See if it jogs anything?"

Dean looked at him. "Didn't help the last couple times," he noted. John sighed, walking over to the small table, where today's newspaper hid the stacks of research.

"There were fatalities in that fire. And they found someone alive in the building. We could try following that lead. Or maybe talk to the other victims again, see if we could get something out of them. Or maybe we could…"

"We should leave."

John's head snapped at that. He looked at Dean, but Dean wasn't looking at him. "Dean?"

"There's nothing supernatural here," Dean said, finally looking at his father, "I mean, if there was, you'd have found something already, right?"

John sighed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dean beat him to it. "Someone got the drop on me, okay? I messed up, and someone got the drop on me. There was nothing supernatural about that." Dean looked away again. John walked over to him, not really knowing what to say.

"You sure?" He asked after a long moment. Dean sighed, still tense, still rigid.

"You can keep an eye on the place. You know, make sure there are no other disappearances or anything fishy. We could always come back, finish the job if there's a job to finish. I just need to get out of here."

John nodded slowly, not missing what Dean didn't say, not missing the fact Dean wasn't planning on looking into this anymore.

"Alright," he drawled, "We'll keep an eye on this place." He'll do much more than that, though. He'll keep a closer look on his son from now on. Both his sons. "Hey, you feel like going to check up on your brother?"

TBC

A/A/N: I hope this really long chapter will make up for a slower update next time, cuz it might take longer than a week this time. But hey, Sam's finally gonna make an appearance!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This isn't the entire forth chapter. I don't really plan on posting on ffn anymore, but since people keep putting this story on alert, I feel it would be wrong not to tell you guys where you can find this story, and all my other stories, from now on.

Also, this story took a turn I did not foresee, and because of that, I'm rewriting it now, from the beginning.

I will be posting the new chapters, as well as my other stories on my lj: http: / sams1ra.livejournal (dot)com. Hope to see you guys there!

* * *

Chapter Four

2008

Sam aligned his next shot, glimpsing at his brother before taking the shot. Forth ball in the corner pocket. Perfect shot. He smiled smugly at Dean, who ignored him, taking another sip from his third beer. Sam raised his brows. _Are they still there?_ Dean gave a slight nod.

"You gonna play or was that just a lucky shot?" Dean asked and Sam grinned.

"I won the last round."

Dean smirked. "You keep telling yourself that," he said, flashing his million-watt smile. Sam glanced over his shoulder. Yep, they were definitely still watching. Getting closer now, too. He moved around the pool table, aligning his next shot. Took his time doing it, too, secretly watching them from the corner of his eye.

It looked like they finally made up their mind after he sunk another ball in. They made their move; one going for Dean, the other heading straight for him. Not the one he'd guess, but still, heading his way.

Sam took a swig from his own beer, glancing at Dean, who was smirking unashamedly at him.

"Wow, you're really good," the leggy brunette said. Sam was kinda hoping for her friend. Oh, well. It's been a while, and they have been watching the brothers for the last three games. Sam smiled at her and she came even closer. "Teach me?" She asked, leaning into his personal space. "Drinks on me," she added. Oh yeah, Dean was smirking now…

Two hours and three tequila shots later, Sam was getting pretty drunk, and the brunette still missed every ball, which meant he had to show her how to properly hold her cue stick again. Sam really didn't mind. He had a nice buzz going on, for the first time in what felt like ages. He didn't even care when Dean told him not to wait up for him and left the place with the brunette's friend.

Tonight, Sam didn't worry. Tonight was good. They finished their hunt the night before, they were taking some time for themselves and they were completely ignoring the huge pink elephant in the room.

Dean was running out of time, demons were gunning for them, a war was going on; but tonight, none of it mattered. Tonight they were just two brothers having fun. Hell would still be there tomorrow.

* * *

Hey, Sammy, promise me something?"

_"Dean…"_

_"Just… Don't look, okay?"_

_Sam frowned, shaking his head. "Wha-?" He sucked in his breath, pupils dilating. "Dean!"_

_"Sammy, don't look!" Dean wheezed, trying to muffle a scream as the hell hound ripped into his belly, slashed at his throat._

"Dean!" Sam screamed, and jackknifed in bed, sheets twisted around his ankles. "Oh, God," Sam ran a hand over his sweaty face, heart pounding hard. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down, to stop shaking. He took another couple of deep breaths, but it didn't help. Kicking the sheets aside, he made a dash for the bathroom and threw up. Yeah, those last two shots of whiskey were probably a bad idea.

Sam got to his feet and flushed the toilet, still feeling a little queasy. He moved over to the sink on wobbly feet and washed his face. He cupped some lukewarm water, gargled and spit it out to get rid of the acrid taste in his mouth.

Sam got out of the bathroom. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of the empty, still made bed next to his.

Nine months, and he was still dealing with that five stages of grief crap.

_Dean was not going to die. He simply wasn't. He'd made a deal with a demon, yes, but demons could be killed. There was no way… _

Sam sighed.

_Maybe there's another deal to be made, or a way to sweeten the deal, a loophole, something. Just because Sam hadn't found one yet, doesn't mean it's not…_

Sam sat down heavily on his bed, staring at the empty bed next to it.

He was going to have to get used to waking up alone, to not having Dean around anymore. He was going to have to remember to get rooms with a single bed after… _No, screw that. Sam might be a selfish bastard, but there's no way he was gonna let Dean go through with that deal. Not like that. Not without one hell of a fight. Not without doing everything he, they, could do to stop it_.

That usually went around in circles for a while. But the only acceptance Sam ever managed to come by, was accepting he had had way too much to drink the night before. Accepting he should never have agreed to play for shots instead of money. He also accepted that hangovers sucked out loud.

A second later, Sam was back in the bathroom, supplying his donation to the porcelain god. Maybe he should go ahead and break Dean's deal. He was already in hell, at least, if he were dead, the headache might go away…

Sam woke up again around eleven. He felt like a piece of crap, but at least he wasn't vomiting anymore, and he didn't feel like smashing his own head with a mullet just to ease the pain.

Groaning, Sam squinted at the other bed. It was still empty, still made.

"Dean?"

Nope. No sign of his brother. Sam scrambled out of bed with a groan, but the room wasn't spinning anymore, which was good. He looked around for his cell phone and checked for any missed calls.

There were none.

Huh.

Alright, no need to panic, it wasn't the first time Dean'd spent the night at some chick's place and didn't come back until late the next day, all Sam had to do was call him and remind him he was a frigging jerk.

Sam walked over to the sink and filled himself a glass of water as he dialed his brother's number. It went straight to voicemail.

Huh.

Jerk.

Getting dressed, Sam went out in search of breakfast.

The room was still empty by the time Sam came back from his coffee run, and it was nearly noon. A legitimate reason to start bugging his big brother to zip it up and come back. Sam tried Dean's cell again.

He frowned when a woman's voice answered the phone.

"Who is this?" He demanded.

"Uh, my name's Laney, I work at Bear's Bar." Sam's frown deepened.

"What are you doing with my brother's phone?"

"I… I found it in the parking lot last night. I thought it was totally busted, but then you called…" she stuttered, and Sam felt his stomach drop.

"Wait, what?" He asked, "What do you mean you found it in the parking lot?"

"Look, man, if I wanted to steal the damn thing, I sure as hell wouldn't have picked up, now would I?" Laney snapped. "You want the phone? Come get it." And she hung up.

At half past twelve, Sam panicked.

He was standing at the bar's parking lot, staring at his brother's car. It was still there, right where Dean'd parked it last night. Laney confirmed the car was there after closing time, she said she just assumed it belonged to someone too drunk to drive, said these things happen.

She didn't exaggerate the state of Dean's phone, though. It was a miracle the thing still worked.

So yeah, Sam panicked.

When his brain started working again, he started looking for the brunette's friend from the previous night. Problem is, he barely remembered last night, the brunette's friend, or the brunette's name. That? Complicated things a little…

TBC (on LJ)


End file.
